


Pity Invitations

by sunshineinthestorm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Christmas, Christmas fic, F/M, Fluff, Human AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5491946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshineinthestorm/pseuds/sunshineinthestorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia's spectacular Christmas plans - watching Miracle on 34th Street and being angry with her parents - are interrupted when she starts to smell smoke halfway through Kris Kringle's first psych evaluation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pity Invitations

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt "hi we’re neighbours and omg are you alright i could smell (cooking) burning - whoaaa now that’s just embarrassing? step aside i’ll handle this." Requested by an anon on my tumblr. (stilestilikeslydia.tumblr.com if anyone's interested!)

Lydia hates being alone at Christmas—not because she doesn’t appreciate the peace and quiet, but because everybody gets so damn  _concerned_ when they find out. She's lost count of the number of dinner offers and party invitations she's gotten, and while she'd be flattered if they were for any other day, the fact that she's only received them because people think she'll be _lonely_ pisses her off.

She's spending Christmas alone by _choice_. After her parents' divorce earlier this year, they expected her to either choose a parent or somehow split her time between them evenly, and that annoyed her so much that she decided she'd rather not spend her time with either of them. So she's perfectly fine with the way her Christmas is turning out. She doesn't need pity invitations. It's been far too long since she watched _Miracle on 34th Street_ anyway.

However, her spectacular Christmas plans are interrupted when she starts to smell smoke halfway through Kris Kringle's first psych evaluation.

Lydia's instincts kick in, and in the space of a few seconds, she shuts off her TV and checks her doorknob with the back of her hand. It's cool to the touch, thankfully—the last thing she needs is to actually have to accept someone's pity invitation because her apartment burned down. Reassured, Lydia steps out of her apartment to investigate the source of the smoke. She doesn't have to go far. The muffled cursing coming from the apartment next door is a pretty good indicator.

For a moment, Lydia considers leaving her neighbor alone and returning to _34th Street_. But she really doesn't want all her clothes to start smelling like smoke, so with a sigh, she steps forward and knocks on the door.

"I don't know who you are, but you should really come back later—oh. Hi." The man that answers the door looks at her with obvious awe, his lips slightly parted. Although Lydia is used to stares from the opposite sex (and sometimes the same one), she finds herself unexpectedly pleased by his reaction. For one thing, she's dressed in an ugly oversized Christmas sweater and leggings, not a miniskirt and heels, and sporting only half her usual amount of makeup. Also, he's fairly attractive himself, if gangly and painfully awkward.

Still, Lydia pointedly ignores his unspoken compliment and gets straight to the point. "I smelled smoke," she says bluntly. "Are you purposefully trying to burn down our apartment building, or—"

"I'm cooking," he says, running a hair through his hair.

"You're destroying whatever you're trying to make for dinner tonight," she corrects him. "If you keep doing whatever it is you've been doing, I can guarantee that you'll be eating charcoal."

"It's Christmas ham!" he protests. Finally, his petulant tone overshadows some of his admiration towards her. Lydia pretends that she approves of the change. "Cooking it correctly obviously requires some kind of dark magic. I doubt _you_ could do any better."

Lydia raises her eyebrows. "We'll see about that," she says, and ducks under his arm and into his living room.

When she turns around to see his reaction, Stiles is gaping at her again, this time in shock. "Did you just… invite yourself into my apartment?"

"You were embarrassing yourself," she says primly. "Also, I would hate for a good Christmas ham to go to waste. Let me handle this."

"Um… okay." He shakes his head and lets his door swing shut. "Just follow the smell of smoke and you'll find my kitchen, I guess."

Lydia works very hard to keep herself from laughing, instead pivoting with a swish of her hips and picking her way through his rooms. Privately, she's amused by the random piles of _stuff_ — clothes, papers, movies, mail — scattered around. At first glance, it all looks like a disorderly mess, but when she sneaks a second look at his movie collection, she sees that they're sorted by genre and then in alphabetical order. All she does publicly, however, is comment on his pathetic excuse for a Christmas tree in the corner.

"I've been busy!" he complains.

"So have I."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles. "I'm sure your apartment has decorations that are classy as hell, but we can't all be perfect."

Lydia spares a moment to marvel at the way this man has guessed at her personality with unnerving accuracy, and then she opens his oven, takes out his ham, and gets down to business. "Okay," she says, inspecting it with a critical eye. "I think most of this can be salvaged. It's pretty much only smoking because you coated it in _way_ too much honey, which almost immediately caught on fire."

The man's eyes go wide. "Honey can do that?"

She rolls her eyes. "If it doesn't have any added water, yes. Congratulations, you own pure honey. However, that doesn't mean you should _cover a ham in it_."

He frowns. "But I'm making honey ham."

"So make an effing _glaze_."

"Oh." He looks at his near-disastrous ham with dismay. "I have to make one of those?"

 She snorts. "Don't worry, I'm not going to leave you to do that on your own. I happen to enjoy living in my apartment and I'd like it to not get scorched."

"I can't let you do that," he says, alarmed. "I'm sure you have plans, and—"

"Believe me, I worked very hard to make sure I don't," she interrupts. "As long as you put on _Miracle on 34th Street_ , this isn't even a waste of my time. That's the most important plan I had for today."

He raises his annoyingly twiggy eyebrows. "How do you even know I have _Miracle on 34th Street_?"

 _I may or may not have seen it in your movie collection pile_ , she thinks. Out loud, she says, "It's a classic. If you don't have it, I'm walking out of here and leaving you with your failure."

He laughs easily, loudly. "Fair enough." Then he sneaks a glance at her and adds, "Um, thanks for helping me out. I'm Stiles, by the way."

Now it's her turn to raise her eyebrows. " _Stiles_?"

"Stiles Stilinski," he says pointedly. "It's a nickname, and the only one you're getting."

She decides not to argue with him. At least not at this moment. "All right. I'm Lydia Martin."

"Lydia Martin," he repeats, testing it out. "Is there a reason you worked very hard to make sure you didn't have any plans on Christmas?"

"Parents got divorced recently," she says as casually as possible. The last thing she needs is pity from Stiles Stilinski on top of everyone else. "I don't really want to deal with either of them today, let alone try to visit both."

He nods. "Well, I was supposed to have plans, but my dad had to go into work. He's a sheriff, and crime doesn't take holidays and all that crap. He _claimed_ he'll be here by six, but I'm expecting him to call in approximately three hours with a long apology about why he has to stay late and miss dinner for some stupid reason." Stiles drums his fingers on the kitchen counter, looks over her Christmas sweater and leggings, and nods slightly. "So, since you're offering to make most of my dinner anyway, wanna stay and eat it with me? It'd be kind of dumb for me to make five sides and two desserts and then have to eat them all myself."

"That's what leftovers are for," she retorts.

" _Five_ sides and _two_ desserts, Lydia," he repeats. "There'll be leftovers either way."

Even now, Lydia thinks she could make up a legitimate-sounding excuse to get out of eating dinner with Stiles. But coming up with an excuse like that will be a lot harder now that he already knows she has nothing better to do. Besides, for some strange reason, this doesn't actually feel like a pity invitation.

So she offers him a close-lipped smile and says, "All right, Stiles, I'll stick around and make your Christmas night feel less pathetic. Now, do any of your five sides include vegetables, or am I going to have to save you from excessive starch as well?"


End file.
